Page 24 of The Lady in Pearls
When they would joys control:
If life’s a pain, I say again?
Let’s drown it in the bowl.”
She pictured the moment the officers of the law came to her house and dragged her father away; the spectators in the street who watched her eviction mere weeks after her father’s sentence was announced. The cold, frightening agony and loneliness of the streets, the smooth comfort of the pearls against her fingertips, kept like a talisman against the ill will around her.
Her voice carried stronger now and she saw not only the past but a future, one she hoped to share with Lachlan. Sunny days on heather-filled meadows and nights in bed, his kisses setting fire between them.
“That time flies fast the poet sing;
Then surely it is wise,
In rosy wine to dip his wings,
And seize him as he flies.
This night is ours; then strewn with flowers
The moments as they roll:
If any pain or care remain,
Why drown it in the bowl.”
Eliza played the refrain once more, then lifted her hands off the keys and laid them in her lap. Her eyes met with Daphne’s and she was surprised to see the woman’s eyes aglitter with tears.
“You sing beautifully,” she said at last.
Daphne’s throat constricted, and she looked at the small audience before her. Cameron was wide-eyed in admiration and perhaps a bit of shock, while Moira had a bittersweet smile upon her face. But Lachlan… His face was a storm of emotions.
Then, without a word, he stood and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him. Cameron exhaled a low, painful sigh before he rose and joined Daphne and Eliza.
“Eliza, why did you pick that song?” He brushed the back of his fingers over his wife’s cheek. “You know it was his favorite.”
“Whose favorite?” Daphne asked. “Lachlan’s?”
Cameron’s face turned to hers. His usual gaiety had vanished, replaced by deep grief.
“William. It was William’s favorite.”
“I’m sorry.” Eliza stood, crossed to Moira, and hugging her. The older woman wiped away stray tears. “I had forgotten. Please, forgive me.”
“No, it was beautiful. Thank you,” said Moira, then looked at the shut door. “But I fear the moment has affected poor Lachlan differently.”
“I’ll go talk to him,” Cameron said, but Daphne caught his arm.
“Let me. I want to.”
Cameron studied her. “Perhaps it would be best.”
Daphne rushed from the music room and caught sight of Lachlan farther down the corridor. She followed him and realized he was headed toward the terrace. The back door to the hothouse was located near the terrace.
Lachlan entered the hothouse. Daphne slipped in behind him. The interior of the glass structure was warm, its windows fogged with moisture. A few abandoned yet blooming plants interspersed those that had withered and now stretched helplessly over dusty pot edges, their decaying vegetation filling the air with a bittersweet scent of death. Empty watering cans littered the floor, and wind whistled eerily along the windows while pale moonlight illuminated the house in creamy patches of light and shadow. She had settled her bit of rose bush here earlier in the day, having filled its pot with fresh soil.
Lachlan stood in the back of the room with one hand braced against the glass, his head bowed like a dark lord over a magical garden that slowly died around him.
“Lachlan,” Daphne whispered. Her slipper trod on a dead leaf. The sharp crackle caused her to flinch. He did not move or speak.
